


O! Tempest, O! Templar

by inconnue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know what I'm doing but I'm going to do it anyhow., Love Triangles, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, POV Original Character, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:17:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inconnue/pseuds/inconnue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been eleven years since Kinloch Hold fell to blood magic - eleven years since Cullen last saw Yvaïne. Now circumstances have brought the rebel mage to an Inquisition whose forces are led by the ex-Templar, dredging up old memories and old wounds for the both of them.</p><p>One struggles for redemption, motivated by memories of the man he was before the Inquisition, while the other clings to the pain that has given her life purpose for the past decade.</p><p>Meanwhile, they're part of something larger, hoping to stop Thedas from falling apart around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a fanfic so please forgive me my trespasses (like that title -NOREGRETS), though feel free to leave constructive criticisms. They are welcome.
> 
> Rated for inevitable depictions of violence and eventual smut.

  
_In the beginning, there was a spark._  
 _Like two great cymbals clanging,_  
 _we met head on._  
\- My Brightest Diamond 

* * *

Haven sprouted out of the white-dusted earth, a village composed of naked forest flaunting its newness - its still teeming life - beneath the livid green scar menacing the sky. Yvaïne watched it materialize through the trees as their large party descended down the slightly sloped path, many pairs of feet, human and beast, forming a groove in the snow that would be swallowed up by fresh falls to come.

She was one among hundreds on this trek - Enchanter Yvaïne, formerly of Kinloch Hold. She had danced with lightning as an apprentice, slate grey eyes bright with an internal storm when she laughed, and then, broken-hearted and desperate to prove something after Uldred’s betrayal of the Circle, had devoted herself to spirit healing with an intensity that surprised those who had known her before.

She had never been serious in her youth and yet she was prone now to reserve and fits of earnestness that contrasted strangely with her sarcastic sense of humor. Her features might have been soft - feminine even - but managed to be uninviting. The storm of her spring no longer raged; warm precipitation gave way to a steady, freezing rain. She was all cold grey eyes, like a cloud forever threatening to burst, and inexpressive, pale lips. Not even the heavy fall of her light chestnut-colored hair could escape restraint; it was often bound with a recycled ribbon, the tail grazing her lower back as she worked. 

There was fresh ribbon at her neck, however - always the cleanest piece Yvaïne could find tied tight against the white skin of her throat. It never came off - at least not that anyone could remember - and she had long-since formed a habit of dragging her fingertips over the smooth surface in moments of abstraction, like she was doing now as they trudged ever closer to their destination.

Ahead of her, the Herald of Andraste rode foremost, her blonde-crowned figure swaying atop her Ferelden Forder with a warrior’s poise. The Grand Enchanter’s mount kept pace at her side, occupying a position of seeming equality as the two women conferred on the threshold of the Inquisition’s headquarters. Behind them, for as far as she could see, the remnants of the mage rebellion stretched out, long and lean and worn down, disappearing and reappearing amidst the wooded world they traversed.

Exhaustion tugged hard at Yvaïne’s limbs as they finally breached the outlying camp, asylum breaking upon them with an immediacy that was difficult to resist. Redcliffe was far behind them; new sounds, scents, and sights drifted over the cold air that cut at her lungs. She could have groaned in relief and curled up on a piece of level ground right then and there were it not for the mechanical way her feet moved forward, staff sinking into the soft snow with each step.

The head of the beast was coming to a stop, however; horses, mages, and carts were slowing involuntarily, dazed and pressing up against the cavalcade ahead, congesting the path and inevitably spilling out onto the open ground around Haven’s walls.

She watched it with detachment, momentarily empty of thought. She ought to be doing something, of course; Fiona would rely on her, among others, to force some order on the confusion. But it was so tempting to slouch there, leaning heavily on her planted staff, all stillness and rest after the protracted march...

“Yvaïne,” a voice murmured at her ear, drawing the slow pivot of her grey-blue eyes to the speaker’s solemn face. “The Herald is taking the Grand Enchanter straight to her advisors - in the Chantry. They have asked that we attend as soon as we are each able.”

“Yes. Yes, of course, Enchanter Bernard.” Yvaïne sucked in a sharp breath meant to gather her resolve. Instead, it felt like knives inside her chest. She winced, freezing momentarily before giving a slow roll of her shoulders to let out the tension, and then she straightened with a nod. “I want to see the wounded are at least momentarily settled and then I’ll go up.” She waved him off. 

It was a deceptively simple task, of course; she knew perfectly well that the injured and the ill would comprise one of the slowest-going segments of the rebel mages’ long train. It gave Yvaïne time to find some level ground, to give instructions to her apprentices and their assistants, and then to check on the worst cases as the carts filed into view.

All in all, three-quarters of an hour passed before she stepped toward the gate of Haven, barely smoothing down the unkempt, fair brown hair that strayed from its binding at her neck, or the dirt- and blood-smeared robe that had been her only vestment on the road from Redcliffe. She could not fail to miss the sidelong glances, let alone the open stares that followed her - that followed all of the new arrivals, really - and would have been happy to chalk it up to her disordered appearance had she not also felt the dangerous hum of Templars amidst the Inquisition soldiers littering Haven.

It was no surprise, mage that she was. Yvaïne had heard enough of the growing movement’s forces to know that their leader was a Templar. No, _ex_ -Templar - if that was even a _thing_. She wondered if she could shrug off the next accusation of ‘apostate’ with a similar retort. ‘No, _ex_ -mage. Yes, I still have all of the abilities. Yes, it’s still in my blood. But that’s _ex_ -mage to you.’

She doubted the next Templar she came across would find that funny - not even an _ex_ -Templar and most definitely not _the_ ex-Templar she was about to face; judging by the muffled, swelling voices audible through the thick doors ahead, no one inside was inclined to tongue-in-cheek jokes at the moment. Whatever was happening, it sounded much more like a free-for-all than a productive conversation. Had Grand Enchanter Fiona expected a warm welcome after the events at Redcliffe? The Herald had been surprisingly - almost suspiciously - understanding but her advisors were not obliged to feel the same way about their new allies...

Yvaïne groaned to herself beneath a begrimed hand that passed across her features, arranging them into a picture of distant neutrality before she pushed her way, quiet as a mouse, into the fracas.

She felt him immediately, his presence pulsing against her spine as she shut the door. It was an almost tangible force - enough to tell her that whoever this ex-Templar was, he had been - no, still _was_ a man of immense power. A Knight-Captain at least.

A second wave hit her, sinking into her with unwanted, shocking ease, and she couldn’t control the shiver that ran through her limbs as her body and blood cried out in visceral warning. Yvaïne gasped, lingering with her back to the room, her palm pressed flat against the wooden portal to steady herself.

A handful of voices were shouting at her back, half of the room giving way to angry exclamations meant to drown the others out, yet none of them were as loud as the thing screaming inside of her; it was a voice from far away and long ago, and it grew shriller, _sharper_ as she felt the air shift, the thrum of him changing as his latent power answered her own.

This was no normal Knight-Captain. He threaded her body and soul, making Yvaïne ache. She wanted to cry out. She wanted to cry. Something sour touched the back of her throat before she swallowed the bile down.

What was happening to her?

She tilted against the door before swiveling her head around to see what kind of Templar could make everything hum and protest with an intimacy that left her panicked and met honey-brown eyes watching her beneath a pale, furrowed brow.

“Cullen!” she moaned though the sound was easily lost amidst the unrestrained yelling. His name was rancid on her tongue, a sweetmeat spoiled after ten years of neglect.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump, her body half-turning to find the Grand Enchanter studying her with evident concern. Yvaïne saw something of her own uneasiness in the woman’s light eyes, a muted reflection of what must have been in the healer’s stormy gaze, before the elder mage gasped and drew back her hand as if shocked.

No, precisely because she had been shocked.

Yvaïne felt the bolts skimming across her skin, primal energy unfurling deep in her core and traveling the network of her nerves like thunder rolling across the landscape. Something hot kindled in her eyes, sparked, broke through the cloudiness there in a searing flash.

It hurt. It made her want to sing out.

“Yvaïne,” - the air shivered and she clenched her teeth, trying to concentrate on Fiona’s anxious voice - “please calm down. The Commander is no enemy of ours -”

The Grand Enchanter might have said more but it fell on deaf ears. Yvaïne felt the atmosphere quake, press in, probe. She was bracing herself for the smite, her muscles painfully taut, a wildness raging in her grey eyes as she fixated them on the Commander. She might as well have been staring at the sun; he was all molten gold, burning through her without mercy.

Around them, the room had gone quiet, though she would never have noticed. Her heartbeat was thunder in her ears. She was a storm about to lose control; he was unflinching, fist gripping the pommel of his sword in the same way his bright, brown eyes gripped her.

And then everything went slack around her. Cullen shifted his glance to the Grand Enchanter, his gaze now half-shuttered but guarded.

It was not a retreat. It was a ceasefire. It made her angrier than before, made her feel more vulnerable.

Yvaïne couldn’t help the way her body sagged under his release but she fought it, wanting the tension, wanting the crackle. She hissed in fury, struggled to surge against the weight of her sapped muscles but managed only to wobble a step.

Cullen was watching her again and his stillness - his _poise_ \- was infuriating. She swayed, pressed her fingertips into her temple to steady herself... 

and then the world pitched sideways and went black.


	2. Chapter 2

  
_Let's take the time to walk together while we have the sun._  
 _You never know when temperamental weather's gonna come._  
\- Mirah

* * *

_The first time she kissed him, it tasted like the dust that kicked up around their bodies in the neglected storeroom and something sweet - maybe apricot. She was straining against his armored body on her tiptoes, a full head shorter than him, and looking up into his wide eyes with triumph and affection molding her countenance._

_“Cullen,” she cooed, venturing so far as to graze her fingertips across his jawline and smiling when his mouth opened and closed in mute embarrassment. He was backlit by the late afternoon sun slanting in through the narrow tower window and it put a golden halo around his golden hair. “You’re lovely,” she sighed._

_She wanted to kiss him again. There was no way for him to miss the ardor with which she gripped his shoulders. Cullen’s fingers were at her hips but they twitched, uncertain. She couldn’t tell if he wanted to dig his fingers into the fabric and flesh there or remove them altogether; maybe both._

_Yvaïne told herself she didn’t care but she knew that was a lie._

_“Will you kiss me again?” Her voice was steady, low, inviting, but something urgent was blossoming in her chest. She knew her victory was not fully assured. He could say no. He could put her aside. He had never expressed a desire for this - not like she had and certainly not like she was now._

_Yvaïne was well aware that he watched another; she knew it because she watched him._

_Yet he was here now. Cullen had let her guide him down the dark hallway and through the obstinate door groaning on its rusty hinges. He had fumbled around the crates in time with her own body, being drawn further in, not exactly smiling but far from frowning._

_Yvaïne’s heart beat with excitement and with something that might have been fear..._

_“I’ll go if you want...” she whispered, following the war being waged in his unblinking eyes. Maker, she could read it all like a book. Everything about him was so expressive, so obvious - eloquent even in its artlessness._

_Amell probably saw through him too. His heart was always laid bare despite the layers of padding and iron that covered it._

_Yvaïne remembered with a pang the way he had looked before and after Amell’s Harrowing. He was in an agony before he stepped into the Chamber, tasked with cutting the apprentice down if she should fail; he had practically floated afterwards, moonstruck and relieved, posted in the hallway by Amell’s new chambers like a puppy awaiting its master._

_It made Yvaïne sick; it made her love him more._

_She sank backward now, feeling the recollection crush her hope, letting her fingers slide off the hard surface of his plate, slick from polishing. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, averting her gaze. She wanted to hide the disappointment in her grey eyes. She didn’t want him to feel as though he had done anything wrong in rejecting her._

_The silence afterwards was so tortuous, she filled it with laughter that she hoped was as convincing as it was loud._

_She didn’t notice that his fingers were still hooked on her hips until he pressed his palms flat against her stomach and drew her forward with excruciating gentleness. “Yvaïne...” she heard him venture, the name half-strangled in his throat. Her face turned up, full of surprise, but then Cullen’s lips were on hers, his kiss so featherlight that she wondered if he had touched her at all._

_“Oh,” she sighed. Her body had gone rigid because she was afraid that if she moved, he would shy away. He was an inch from her face - so close, so painfully, wonderfully close - and Yvaïne saw that his eyes, ochre in the low, orange light, were tender, even if conflicted, before his golden lashes closed over them._

_Then he was kissing her again and it was tentative but exploratory - like he was testing the feel of her and maybe, just maybe testing something within himself more._

_She lost herself in the slow press and retreat, the unhurried movements of their mouths. Her blood - her magic was humming; she could feel it throbbing beneath her skin and shuddered as his Templar’s potency brushed back, sending jolts through her nerves._

_It was unspeakable bliss stolen in a storage closet from a young man who might have been thinking of another and it all came to an end when a bell’s toll shattered the silence._

_Yvaïne gasped and pulled away, her hands coiled around his forearms at the elbow. “Oh, Maker, I - I have to go! My lesson with Wynne!” she cried, dancing toward the door with alarm._

_She turned before stealing out into the hallway, cheeks a pretty pink and eyes glowing with internal currents of power sparked by his touch. “Cullen,” she murmured, trying to stifle her borderline euphoria as she took one last glance at his bewildered and flushed face, “don’t forget this!”_

_Later that night, as the dining hall filled with low conversations and the occasional peal of laughter, she saw his eyes following Amell and bit her cheek until she tasted blood._

_She told herself she didn’t care but she knew that was a lie._


	3. Chapter 3

  
_Sorrow found me when I was young._  
 _Sorrow waited, sorrow won._  
\- The National

* * *

New snow gave way with ease beneath Cullen’s abstracted footsteps, collected in his combed-back blond hair, and amassed on tent tops before sliding off the fabric in sudden rushes. The sun had set some time ago, leaving everything not touched by the light of campfires cast in a strange, sickly, silver-green hue.

The moon and the Breach continued to make unsettling bedfellows.

Ostensibly, the Commander was making the rounds of the tents outside Haven’s gates but his path kept taking him past the mages’ new encampment - a fact he was hard-pressed to disguise. He could feel wary eyes on him and tremors of nervous energy - spells wound up in tight coils by people who were mistrustful and apprehensive of the ex-Templar while his blood still hummed.

He couldn’t blame them. He didn’t trust them either.

Of course, Cullen was far from alone in thinking the Herald should have steered clear of the rebels. But he also understood that he should have been steering clear of the quiet tent he passed over and over while pacing his circuitous route, yet there he was! So who was he to judge?

Well, the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces most of the time. On the other hand, when the Grand Enchanter emerged directly in front of him from the tent he knew to be Yvaïne’s, he felt like a blasted fool.

He jerked to a stop as if he had been caught in some dubious act.

“Commander,” Fiona greeted him but it might as well have been a question. Cullen shifted, his fingers gripping the back of his neck as his eyes darted between the warm light spilling out of the open tent flap and the mage’s pale gaze, nearly colorless in the gloom.

“Ah, Grand Enchanter, I was just...” He gave up, trailed off, sighed in resignation.

She cocked her head slightly and he knew that she was studying him with barely masked curiosity. “Yes,” she drawled out with her Orlesian accent, “I can see that.”

He had no idea what to say or whether he should say anything at all. He let the silence stretch and she did the same. Somewhere behind them, a branch gave out under its burden of snow, cracking in the stillness of the wood and giving Cullen an excuse to look away.

“Well, I should be... going now,” he managed, already turning on his heel to march back the way he had come. He didn’t make it two steps before the Grand Enchanter arrested his progress - or, rather, his flight.

“Commander, I should apologize.”

_Ah, Maker’s breath_ , he cursed, feeling an apprehension settle under his ribcage. He didn’t want to talk about this. He didn’t know why he was here. Maybe she did. He hoped she didn’t.

“I should have realized you two might know one another,” she was explaining to his back in a tone so quiet and neutral that he wanted to growl in frustration. Instead, he grimaced, his stubbled jaw flexing.

There was something nagging at him as Fiona spoke - a sensation that he should turn around and face her or else admit to himself that he was a coward. But he couldn’t do it; his feet wouldn’t budge. Probably because he knew he was lying to himself. He wasn’t afraid of the Grand Enchanter; he was afraid of the woman in the tent.

“I am sorry that... that our alliance has started off on such an... unfortunate note.” When Cullen said nothing, she continued, unfazed. “I know there will be tensions but I believe we can work together. Yvaïne is sleeping now but will feel the same once she has given it some thought, I have no doubt. So please forgive her for earlier.” Something lanced between his ribs and he shuddered. “We were all very tired from the journey and a great many were ailing along the way, so I’m sure Yvaïne pushed herself all the harder. She is the best healer we have and she knows it.”

That made him turn, the Commander looking at her in open puzzlement. “Healer?” he echoed, recapturing the two steps he had surrendered earlier.

“Yes?” Fiona rejoined. “Yvaïne is an accomplished spirit healer. We are lucky to have her. The Inquisition will be too - you’ll see,” she added, smiling.

But her explanation only served to confuse Cullen all the more. He shook his head as if he had misheard, brows knit together. “I don’t understand. Yvaï-” - ah, Maker, his tongue tripped over the syllables and he swallowed hard - “Yvaïne’s talents are... primal. I saw it again in the war room. Her power is- is...”

...What? Destructive? Dangerous? Daunting? What would he call her power now? He would have called it different things at different times but not a single one of those words, either positive or negative, felt right after almost a dozen years.

Cullen didn’t even know the mage she had become. How could he know anything about the woman she had become?

He _had_ to face her again or, Maker take him, he was nothing more than a scoundrel.

“She has innate ability with lightning, yes,” the Grand Enchanter conceded after it became clear that the Commander had no intention of continuing. “I do not know when or why she chose to pursue spirit healing,” she shrugged, “but so it is and so we embrace her skill gladly.”

He found himself staring at the tent opening in muddled cogitation, struggling to reconcile his scattered, scarred recollections with the reality that was just the other side of the cloth.

“She must rest now. We will need her again on the morrow,” Fiona murmured, lowering her voice as the noises of the camp ebbed around them.

He expected her to give him a polite dismissal after that, had tensed his limbs beneath his chilled armor in preparation of stalking away, but nothing of the sort happened. Instead, the mage smiled at him, something warm and maybe even maternal at the corner of her lips, and then moved away in silence, leaving Cullen to stand helplessly in the snow.

_Maker’s breath. The clever woman._

He knew he had been robbed of an excuse. It was now or, well, if not never, not anytime soon. It would only become harder as time wore on.

He ducked into the tent and pulled the flap to behind him, letting his eyes adjust to the concentrated light bathing the interior and spilling over Yvaïne’s prone body. Her bedding looked makeshift and uncomfortable but he knew they had all experienced worse. It was probably a luxury after the march from Redcliffe.

He just wished there were at least a place for him to sit.

But there wasn’t, so Cullen was left to hunch over in the cramped space, positioned above Yvaïne in such a way that he could see the blanket rise and fall with her steady breaths. He let his brown eyes wander once he knew for sure that he hadn’t disturbed her rest and was surprised to realize that the pain he had anticipated was less acute than he had feared.

It was still there, though, like pebbles grating against one another in his chest, smooth-polished from years of agitation. Maybe that was worse. He felt the muted click of them tumbling around and around, causing a dull ache, as he subconsciously catalogued the subtle differences between the features of this woman and the girl in his memories.

He took some satisfaction in admitting to himself that he had known her as soon as she had entered the war room, despite catching nothing more than a pale profile. Cullen had had a few seconds’ advantage when their eyes met for the first time - for whatever that had been worth. It didn't seem like a lot. Maybe enough time to swallow down a startled cry and tense his whole body against further reaction.

In hindsight, in the serenity offered by the candle’s blooming light and Yvaïne’s measured breathing, it was easy for him to consider what he _should_ have done differently only a handful of hours ago.

_You could have said her name. You could have smiled. You could have checked your power sooner. You could have shown her you were no threat, that you meant no harm..._

He found his eyes on the strip of satin at her throat even while his thoughts devolved into useless abstracts - while he tried to convince himself of the efficacy of these oh-so-wise alternatives.

He wanted to believe that they would have made a difference but he knew that was a lie.

She had every reason to see him as a danger. She had every reason to hate him.

The past was immutable and implacable. He _knew_ this, yet he spent every day with the Inquisition fighting tooth and claw against it, wanting to erase his past transgressions, his shortcomings.

He realized with a start that the ribbon was _achingly_ blue. It was the same vivid color as her veins had been, pulsing under fair skin, taut and translucent, wholly blanched by fear. He had forgotten how much bluer the delicate lines had seemed when the trickles of red appeared...

Something tore inside of Cullen, causing his stomach to roil hard. He clamped a gloved hand over his mouth and shut his eyes against visions that sprung to life in distressing detail as much as against the nausea that was overtaking him. All he could do was stumble outside, intending to cut across small swells of snow to reach his own shelter without detection.

But if life had taught him anything, it was that things never went as planned.

Cullen staggered a few paces from Yvaïne’s tent, then doubled over and dropped to all fours as the first retch convulsed his throat. His stomach seized up, bottomed out, then seized up again, causing him to gag in quick succession. He was desperate to get back on his feet, away from any potentially prying eyes - to curb his sickness of stomach and heart - but his limbs wouldn’t obey, leaving him with fistfuls of snow and the pungent tang of vomit as it pooled beneath him.

He sucked in a few ragged breaths as soon as it was over and pushed himself up, hand over his mouth. The wind was gelid; the perspiration on his brow left his skin clammy well before he gained his tent and pitched himself inside without further accident.

His cot was there, neither warm nor welcoming. He threw himself upon it nevertheless, grunting as armor and leather crushed together in ways not intended. There was a stub of a candle burning already, lit every night by one of Haven’s often invisible helpers, and in its dwindling light, Cullen could pick out a familiar bottle within arm’s reach. If he squinted, he could see the vaguest blue glow - the remnants of the lyrium that had been inside.

It was almost remarkable how the glass retained the faint luminescence even after all these weeks. It would have been downright impressive if he didn’t find the very idea repulsive... 

because that bottle was a symbol of his own body, of the vessel left unfilled by lyrium and yet still stained by the cursed substance. He kept it to remind himself of what he was doing and why; yet as his fingers curled around the cold phial, all Cullen could see was the ribbon on Yvaïne’s softly pulsing throat.

His arm lashed out, hurtling the bottle toward the unforgiving ground, and the sound of glass splintering filled the Commander’s tent before everything sank back into silence.

_I swear_ , he thought, pressing his sweat-beaded face into the pillow, _I swear to you, I’m not that man. I won’t go back to that man._


	4. Chapter 4

  
_There was no way she could understand._  
 _It was a roaring in the blood._  
\- Murder By Death

* * *

An entire week elapsed before Cullen saw Yvaïne again. He might have been concerned if the Grand Enchanter had not mentioned in the course of her apology to the Herald and advisors that she had spoken with the younger woman and felt that a second incident would not occur. ‘A shock,’ she had said and there had been one or two snorts at the word choice. Then it was business as usual without a second mention.

At least, not until Leliana cornered him one morning, catching him as he strode past her tent. He kicked himself afterwards for not realizing that the ever-vigilant spymaster would put two and two together. She had been there when Kinloch Hold fell to blood magic, after all; she had seen Cullen in his cage and probably recognized Yvaïne from the surviving mages.

“Cullen,” she started, drawing him further into the interior and the shadows, “that mage... Yvaïne-” His pained expression was all the confirmation she needed. “She _was_ there then.”

He could only nod at her soft affirmation, his brown eyes cast down in the dim light. Maker, how much could she piece together from that? He was afraid to look her in the eyes and give anything more away. Yes, they had known one another; yes, terrible things had happened to them both.

“There’s more,” Leliana intoned sotto voce, her face tilting inside its hood as she watched him.

Cullen gave her a groan in answer and rubbed his fingers across his forehead in a vain effort to combat the dull ache unfolding somewhere in his skull. Did he want to give her this information? Did it matter? There was no doubt that she could get it if she wanted it. Would she go to Yvaïne? Would Yvaïne tell her... well, anything? Everything?

“There’s more.” Fine. He didn’t have anything against Leliana. Maybe, of all people, she might understand - _really_ understand - some of what he was telling her. She had seen him then... and that knowledge both shamed and comforted him.

“After...” It was a weak beginning. Cullen was already struggling to find the right words. He cleared his throat and tried again. “After what happened, when we - when the Templars - regained control of the tower, I... It was difficult,” he offered, faltering, fingers fisting and uncurling unconsciously. “I saw signs of blood magic everywhere. I couldn’t trust the mages that had survived. I made accusations - wild accusations. I... I’m sure you can guess the rest.”

Leliana’s gaze was a fathomless blue beneath her hood. “You accused her of being a blood mage?”

It was so much an understatement that Cullen actually snorted, the sound thick with self-loathing. “Worse,” was all he said before he turned to go. It was enough. The spymaster would get all the specifics sooner or later; they didn’t need to come from him. “I trust in your discretion, Leliana.”

Cassandra and lyrium; Leliana and Yvaïne.

_I’m a blighted fool_.

Hours later, the sun was slanting overhead while the Commander snapped out corrections in a surly bark. His irritability and impatience had made the handful of recruits under his scrutiny that day all the more nervous; likewise, they performed all the worse and drove him mad with vexation. It was a damnable cycle.

“Do you _want_ to die, Floyd?” It was less a question and more a condemnation as he stood over the prone boy and stared into the latter’s wild, fearful eyes. It was maybe the tenth time the lad had failed to hold his footing against the Commander’s charge; a few bruises were beginning to bloom along his exposed skin.

“Get on your feet,” Cullen growled, thumping the tip of the wooden practice sword against the ground in an ominous tattoo.

Nearby, a wisp of a girl was watching, wide-eyed and unusually quiet. “C’mon, Floyd,” she urged in a whisper, “do as he says. You can do it...” - by which she meant ‘you had better do it,’ as every observer well knew.

Every one of them had worked with the Commander before. They were familiar with his training techniques; they knew his patience sometimes flagged but that it was always a byproduct of his confidence in one’s ability to overcome the hiccup in their progress. He saw the stagnation, he honed in on it, and he gave you the push you needed to overcome it.

Today was different, however. Today, Cullen was driving himself - _hard_ \- and the recruits were just grist to his sword-wielding mill. 

There was nothing any of them could do - certainly nothing _Floyd_ could do except get up, chest heaving beneath sweat-stained padding, and brace himself for the next attack.

So _of course_ that was when Yvaïne passed by, a fellow mage at each side with their heads bent toward her in close conversation. He caught sight of her right after a merciless bash of his wooden shield sent the sapling of a boy sprawling in the dirt; it was like her grey-blue eyes were two flashes of lightning, illuminating the brutality of his actions in one searing hot second.

Cullen almost threw the practice shield and sword down to run to her, desperate to explain. _You don’t understand. I have to do this. I have to teach them. They’ll_ die _out there, where it’s real, if I go easy on them here._

But by the time he blinked, she was looking at the young man at her side, continuing her discussion without so much as a second glance toward the practice ring. He might have thought himself mistaken - believed that she hadn’t seen him after all - if it hadn’t been for the contempt that marred her pale features in that brief moment of contact.

Now, she was smiling faintly while a second young mage responded to her with enthusiasm, gesticulating in front of the group as they strolled past - smiling as if the object of her abhorrence wasn’t twenty feet away.

He handed his arms to the nearest recruit and excused himself, resolving to regain his composure elsewhere, out of sight. He didn’t go far, merely around the corner of a nearby tent where he pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut tight.

He could heard Floyd groaning in relief amidst a circle of subdued voices undoubtedly speculating on the cause of the Commander’s passion that day.  “To the void with it,” the lad interjected hoarsely, “whatever it is. I thought I was a goner!”

“For the love of Andraste, Floyd, muzzle it,” the girl from before snapped. “It’s gotta be serious to bother the Commander.”

Over the next two days, Cullen kept a firm grip on his poise but failed to secure peace of mind. Something itched - drove him over and over to start toward the mages’ encampment, single-minded in his purpose only to turn aside at some point with assurances to himself that he would approach her later. Always later.

Later was obliging in that it never actually arrived.

She found him first.

Cullen nearly fell out of his chair when she ducked inside his open tent, body as taut as a bowstring about to break. He had been digesting reports - or, at least, trying to. In reality, the only thing he could concentrate on was the searing sensation of his body, his skin feverish. He had left his tent flap open in the hopes that the brisk nighttime breeze without might cool him and he had divested himself of his armor for fear of cooking alive within.

He wondered if this state of relative undress had anything to do with how exposed he felt under Yvaïne’s unflinching stare as she stood there, silent.

“Ah... You startled me,” he stuttered, rising with all the grace of a golem.

“I apologize.” Her tone was clipped but he couldn’t quite call it impolite. It was too... distant for that. He almost wished she were sneering instead. “Grand Enchanter Fiona wished me to deliver this list to you.”

“A... list?” he asked, feeling ridiculous. Here he was, asking her about something as trivial as a list for Maker knew what when eleven years hung between them. Eleven weighty, suffocating years.

He wished he could see her eyes clearly but the circle thrown by his candle fell far short of the entrance. What he could see now was a gaze that was dark, almost black, and heavy like the fat clouds, pregnant with rain, that rolled over Ferelden in the warm season.

He wanted to touch her. Just to know she was real and okay and here.

Eleven years of memories standing just inside of his tent.

“She said you would know what to do with it.” Yvaïne’s voice made her sound like she was still far, far away.

“Oh, thank you. I... I appreciate it, though... you could have sent a messenger if it was-”

“Yes. I made the same point. She insisted nevertheless.”

“I see.” Cullen gripped the back of his neck and forced himself not to step closer, afraid of startling her away before he could muster the courage he needed to say what he wanted. “Yvaïne,” he managed, surprised at how easily the name rolled off of his tongue this time, when it seemed like it mattered the most, “about the other day-”

“Goodnight, Commander.” 

She disappeared into the darkness outside before he could make another sound and Cullen realized with cold clarity that even a few feet apart from one another, eleven years was an almost impossibly long distance to cross.

Especially if you were trying to cross it alone.


	5. Chapter 5

  
_Oh, sweet creature,_  
 _I know exactly how you feel._  
 _Your clock is ticking - tick tack, tick tack._  
 _Your heart is beating - tum, tum, tum, tum, tum._  
\- Blonde Redhead

* * *

_It was hard to miss Amell’s presence, though she never sought out attention as far as Yvaïne could tell. She was diligent and skilled in her studies, making her a favorite with some of the Enchanters - most notably the First Enchanter - without having to resort to sweet-talking. Yvaïne, on the other hand, was notoriously flighty, prone to distractions, and often late; she charmed what Enchanters she could and defied the rest with waggishness._

_When the younger female mages flitted at night between their quarters for as much gossip and giggling as they could manage before lanterns out, Yvaïne was mischief and movement while Amell was placidity and self-assurance. They both gathered girls around them but one herded them together with clarion cries for amusement and an unfettered dynamism while the other sat quiet and calm, offering a port in the innocuous but exhausting storm._

_This was the way of things for years - this co-existing without ever really meeting in the middle. Yvaïne wasn’t sure how it had come to be, though she strongly suspected it had more to do with the slow-boiling sensation in her gut whenever she was around Amell than anything that the latter had actively done. Only recently had she realized that this was jealousy, pure and simple._

_It was jealousy over the younger girl’s pretty, rosebud beauty and picturesque blonde tresses compared to her pale face and mousy-brown hair. It was jealousy over her natural abilities - to please, to excel, to control and augment her magic, to make people love her._

_To make a certain person love her._

_Jealousy, even, over the way the girls at her side breathed ‘ohhh’s one night, growing quiet and wide-eyed when Amell approached them as if the Divine herself were standing at the foot of the bed. They had all been gasping and squealing moments before, a swell of titters and stifled sighs that Yvaïne had coaxed out by reading aloud from the latest piece of blush-inducing literature to be smuggled into the Circle._

_Now, they were mute and some even ashamed, slinking off the bed with mumbled excuses, and Yvaïne was angry at what felt like a defeat. In a single second, under an assault that was nothing more than Amell’s soft-footed approach, her little band of mischief-makers had capitulated! Well, not her. She met the younger mage’s soft, blue-eyed gaze with the full, tempestuous nature of her own before giving the most perfunctory acknowledgement she could manage.  “Amell.”_

_“Solona,” the fair-haired girl corrected, a picture of amiability, “Please call me Solona.”_

_Yvaïne’s fingers twitched against the cheaply bound book she was holding, a spark fizzling out in the momentary silence. “Is there something you need?” she finally asked. Her tone said ‘Why are you even here?’_

_Amell’s smile widened while she answered, “I was hoping we might talk for a bit,” which was somehow enough to send the few remaining girls skittering away. Yvaïne watched them go with consternation and then expressed outright dismay when her new companion took advantage of the vacated places on the bed to sit down._

_“We don’t talk much-” Amell began softly, causing Yvaïne to snort._

_“No, and-” she cut in but the younger mage put a slim hand on Yvaïne’s shoulder and continued, undaunted.  “We don’t talk much but I need to tell you - Well, no, I_ wanted _to tell you that... I don’t care for him that way. I’m not your enemy.”_

_Yvaïne went stock-still beneath the girl’s touch and those words. “I... don’t know... what-”_

_“I don’t mean to embarrass you. I hope I haven’t. Really. I just thought you might like to know.”_

_The book fell into Yvaïne’s lap, forgotten, while she stared at Amell, unable to disguise her shallow, panicked breathing. She could see there was no point in denying everything but she hadn’t quite decided if this was a trick or not. Her eyebrows knit together while she struggled for what she might safely say._

_“How did...” she started but without fully committing to the question._

_“Oh!” Amell replied, squeezing her shoulder. “Oh, no one told me. It’s not like people are talking. I promise. I see Cullen a lot and you... Well, I noticed.”_

_Yvaïne’s bravado deflated altogether. Her light brown hair swung against her cheeks as her head bowed down, chagrin succeeding defiance. She had thought herself clever enough to escape general notice, yet now the_ last _person from whom she wanted advice was sitting two feet away, smiling like she was doing her a favor._

_“Amell...”_

   _“Solona.”_

_“...Solona,” she murmured, yielding, “why do you care? Why are you telling me this?”_

_“Hmm.” The hand on Yvaïne’s shoulder was removed and Solona rested her chin on a small fist, quietly contemplating the grey-eyed creature she had unnerved. “I guess... I think you could be good for him.”_

_Yvaïne gave a wry bark of a laugh at that. A few nearby girls glanced at them in surprise, though they had undoubtedly been stealing looks for the entire interview._

_“This is absurd. Why me? Why not you? He adores you. You’re whom he wants. You just need to snap your fingers and... and...” Yvaïne shoved the book off her lap in frustration and turned wild, charged eyes on Solona. “It doesn’t matter what you think or what I want anyhow!”_

_The younger mage kept her composed smile and inscrutable blue gaze through this hushed rant. “I’m not suggesting you bewitch him, Yvaïne.” The ease with which she said her name gave Yvaïne pause - like it had rolled off her tongue an uncountable number of times, like they had been good friends for ages. “I think you care for him deeply. I think you understand him a bit - at least, more than most people do,” Solona murmured, glancing at the chattering mages around them._

_“But not at as much as_ you _, right?” Yvaïne’s whisper sounded bitter, even to her._

_Solona seemed surprised for the first time. Her smile evaporated though her countenance retained its kindness in all its soft edges. “I didn’t mean that,” she sighed, “though it’s... fair. I don’t know.”_

_Silence reigned after that. Yvaïne would have described the atmosphere as tense but Solona still seemed serene, if meditative. Irritation gnawed at the older girl’s stomach and caused her to square her shoulders, as if preparing for a fight. She felt a desperate need to say something - to shock Solona once more, to gain an edge._

_“I kissed him,” she eventually blurted out, though she leaned closer to the blonde so no one would overhear. Her expression was one of challenge once more but Solona either did not or chose not to notice; instead, the latter’s face lit up, her rosy cheeks lifting in what amounted to almost a grin._

_“You_ did _?” she practically gasped, stifling a soft giggle behind her hand._

_Yvaïne blinked, finding it was her turn to be surprised; she wondered at the reaction - had half-expected Solona to doubt her or get angry or... Oh, Maker, who knew? - but even more than that, she found herself wondering if she had ever seen the mage look so..._ playful _. Her blue eyes were positively sparkling as she snatched up Yvaïne’s hand._

_“What did you do? When was it? Where was it? What did_ he _do?”_

_“A... A week ago. In a storeroom. He... Um...” Yvaïne did not blush easily but she turned her face down and away, feeling bashful now. She laughed to mask her nervousness and because her innate whimsy saw the absurdity of the whole situation._

_Since when had Solona-_ Amell! _\- become her sole confidante in the world?_

_“Why don’t you like him?” Yvaïne questioned abruptly, still avoiding Solona’s gaze. It was hard for her to imagine someone could take such a close interest in the Templar without feeling what she felt._

_A slight shift of the mattress drew her gaze to the younger mage after all - just in time to see Solona shrug and draw her perfect blonde braid over her shoulder. “My preferences are... a little less_ traditional _,” she answered. Her smile was ever-present, though subdued now._

_“Oh.” It was all Yvaïne could give in response. She didn’t understand the explanation but she felt instinctively that she wasn’t likely to get anything else to that end._

_Suddenly, Solona moved to her knees, leaning toward Yvaïne and brushing her fingertips across the older girl’s forehead. “You know, you should wear bangs. Your eyes are so..._ intense _. It would frame them.”_

_A shiver went down Yvaïne’s back at the touch but she looked up at Solona with large, unblinking grey-blue eyes that showed her confusion and pleasure at the compliment in equal measure. “Oh... You... think so?”_

_Solona nodded and teased some of Yvaïne’s unkempt brown hair between her fingers. “I’ll come back tomorrow night and we’ll cut it. ...If you’ll let me?”_

_“...Okay.”_


	6. Chapter 6

  
_You were more than just a friend._  
 _Oh, but the feeling -_  
 _it never came to an end._  
 _I can't bear to see you._  
\- The xx

* * *

A gust beat against Yvaïne as soon as she stepped out of the apothecary’s cabin. It stirred her light brown bangs against her forehead and brought a few tears to her eyes as they adjusted to the lower light and colder air of dusk.

“I’ll see what I can do about the elfroot,” she called to Adan, losing his mumbled response as she shut the door behind her. 

She shivered as she descended the partially obscured stairs, her arms folded tight against her body without anything more than wool robes to keep her warm. She had refused a cloak; too few to go around still and too many people who needed them more.

She was lamenting this generosity, soft puffs forming in front of her face with each grumble, when she passed by the tavern. The little log building had a tendency to glow invitingly even at midday but it was a particular temptation now, when the last vestiges of daylight were fading and full-blown night crept from the eastern tree line.

Yvaïne stopped outside, standing in an imperfect square of light that spilled through a window, and glanced at the snow at her feet. She had never harbored any love for the cold to begin with but for years now, it gave her pause; she remembered - frost creeping from surprisingly warm fingers and blue eyes that were pale, like icicles in the tower windows, but never cold.

Idly, she wondered if the smooth plane of snow at her feet now bathed in a delicious orange light was anything like that, like Solona - flushed with some hidden heat when you expected it to be cool. Yvaïne started to kneel, wanting to press her fingers into the thin crust of ice on top and find out what was underneath, when the door to the tavern swung open, the noise and sudden flare of light momentarily dazzling her.

She stood up, blinking until she could make out Varric Tethras crossing the threshold.

“Evening,” he offered in his gritty voice. She liked that voice - thought it suited her idea of the adventurous dwarf author, somehow made him feel approachable. He was rough around the edges. He had seen some things.

“Good evening.”

“Heading back to camp?” he asked, even as they fell into step together down the winding path toward the main gate.

“Mm.” Yvaïne’s affirmation was half-hearted, her heart and dry throat still musing about what might have been inside the cozy cabin they were leaving behind.

He seemed to sense it, chuckling before offering, “Flissa just tapped a new cask, I think.” 

She actually groaned in response but their progress continued unchecked, the pair falling into easy conversation. Varric was like that, she had found. He asked you questions and told you stories. She could see why he was often at the center of the more improbable tales - why people, even famous people, would want to keep him around. Well, most people. 

“So where are you from?” he asked her now and she glanced down at his broad-featured face, noting absently that the affability of his grin made it pleasant to look at him.

“Kinloch Hold,” she answered out of habit.

Varric laughed and shook his head. “ _Before_ that. You came from somewhere, right? Somewhere - some village or town or ship deck - a man loved a woman and Yvaïne was born unto the world. So where were you a squealing babe before a mage?”

A smile, small and easy to miss in the low light, quirked at the corners of her mouth. Yes, she liked Varric Tethras. “Amaranthine.”

“Amaranthine...” he drawled, considering the reply. “Yeah, that makes sense,” the dwarf ventured a minute later, scratching at his cheek as he studied her. “You’ve got something of the Waking Sea about you.”

“What do you mean?” Yvaïne asked, coming to a standstill, though she knew exactly what he meant; she had heard this before. Still, she looked at him with slate grey eyes that were a strange silver color in the green-tinted moonlight and waited.

“Well,” he chuckled, gesturing at her expression, “I guess I mean that! You _look_ like you’re all calm waters and smooth sailing but... I’m betting you could bring down a hundred ships.” It was a cryptic finish - at least cryptic enough to cause Yvaïne to frown at him, eliciting a snigger. “No one said it was a bad thing, Stormy.”

“ _What_?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Too obvious.”

They were approaching the bonfire where he had a habit of spinning yarns day and night for whomever stopped long enough to listen. Yvaïne expected him to turn aside but he kept step with her as they pushed on toward the gate, stretching his arms above his head and yawning.

“Ah, Bianca and I could use the air - walk off that last pint,” he explained as they left Haven proper behind. In front of them, innumerable tents peppered the white landscape, the snow eerily luminescent under a waxing moon. Camp fires broke up the horizon, drawing the eyes like beacons, and conversations high and low drifted on the breeze.

Yvaïne still shivered as they turned down an impromptu path cut through the snow. She was on the verge of asking Varric what he thought of the Herald - confident that his answer would give her _something_ , though she didn’t know what - when she felt the first slow roll of power sink into her gut and draw her up short, mid-step.

The dwarf made it a few steps further before noticing her abrupt stop. He turned, confused, and she avoided his eyes while her grey-blue gaze swept over the scene around her. She was conscious at least of trying to be discreet and of how she was probably failing.

What direction was it coming from? It had to be ahead of them. They were already past his tent. The trebuchets? Too far. Harritt’s? The steady pulse of hammering coming from the blacksmith’s felt like a beating heart laid bare to the hiemal air. It had to be Harritt’s.

A second wave made her stomach turn and then caressed her spine, as if trying to be gentle.

She shivered, though not with cold; the sensation started in her bones, uncoiled in her limbs, caused her skin to tingle against the linen undergown she wore. Yvaïne could feel Varric watching her, though he said nothing over the span of empty seconds, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was beating a hasty retreat.

“I should get back to our side of the camp - check on some people,” she murmured, feeling the flimsiness of her excuse on her tongue.

“Yeah, all right.” Varric offered her one of his trademark grins as she turned to go, doubling back the way they had come. “See you later, Nug!”

She felt a slow-building charge crawling over her body, sending little pops of light to her eyes as she whipped around to the dwarf.

“...Did you just say... What in Thedas are you talking about?”

“Nug! That’ll be your nickname.” The smug satisfaction in Varric’s voice might have been just as irritating at any other time but it was especially vexing now, when all she wanted was a straight answer and a straight path of flight.

_Oh, Maker bless me, he’s coming._ Yvaïne couldn’t see him but she could feel the thrum of the Commander - could taste the Templar in him at the back of her throat.

Her muscles were straining to go but something was coalescing into a hard knot in her chest while she stared at Varric - maybe corking her heart judging by the way it felt like everything was running cold inside. What was this feeling? What was he saying?

“...Whatever _for_?” she hissed with an indignant puff of hot breath.

“Yvaïne,” Varric chuckled, glancing toward the gloom where she had been staring like a hunted animal, “you bounce around this camp like a skittish nug in a narrow cave sometimes. Pretty specific times, actually.”

It was so absurd - so positively absurd and, even _worse_ , so _true_ , that Yvaïne actually laughed; a short, strangled sound but a laugh nevertheless.

Her thoughts came in clear, sharp pieces, like slivers of glass behind her eyes.

Oh. Varric was calling her out. He was forcing her to make a decision: run again or stand her ground.

Her self-pride hung in shreds, the wounds yawning between her ribs at eye-level with the smirking dwarf. _Son of a bitch_.

“You can’t be serious!” she protested, simultaneously fighting the urge to take a step back, then another. Behind Varric, a steadily approaching glint made her thumb the ribbon at her neck in subconscious unease. She could practically see the Commander’s golden-crowned face materializing out of the dark.

Varric gave her an exaggerated shrug. “Hey, I just call it like I see it.”

“You can’t call me that.” She wanted it to be warning; it sounded like a plea. _Please don’t make me do this_ , she really meant.

“‘Course I can!” he countered.

Yvaïne wanted to stamp her foot in the soft-packed snow or maybe push the dwarf down and run. Instead, she planted her feet against another shudder as the Commander’s angular features came into full view. Something hot vibrated deep in her belly.

His eyes were in shadow but she already knew that he was looking at her; she could imagine the warm golden-brown in painful detail.

“Evening, Curly.” Varric’s greeting punctured the silence so easily that it made Yvaïne want to scream. Couldn’t he see there was no room for friendliness in the space she put between her body and the Commander’s?

“Varric,” the Commander returned and his low, melodic voice sounded almost as carefree through the buzzing in her ears. She rubbed her fingertips across her throat, feeling them twitch when he added, “Yvaïne.”

This was worse than the night she had gone to his tent by Fiona’s order. She had had time to prepare herself then, had trod through the snow at a crawl in order to accommodate herself to the pulsing sensation of him.

Yvaïne had expected him to be waiting for her by the time she slunk into the open flap that night but he had seemed genuinely surprised and the realization of this - that he might not feel her like she felt him - had made her so angry, so unspeakably angry.

So why had she cried that night instead of beating something with her fists or frying something with the bolts that danced over the palms of her hands?

Why had she avoided the Commander like a plague? She wasn’t afraid of him. Not really, though she wanted to believe that was it. She was really afraid of the way his gaze, all molten gold and equally searing, would jerk up a full minute after she had sensed him in every nerve of her body.

Yeah, that made her angry.

She should have been the churning clouds on his horizon, long-dreaded - not a thunderbolt he only perceived when it was right over his head. It wasn’t fair since he was like a sun, relentlessly burning her alive inside from as far away as eleven years, let alone across a camp.

“Commander.” Ice had never been her forte but it hung heavy in her tone now.

Varric trained his keen gaze on her. The Commander looked away.

  “Well, ...goodnight,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck as he passed by the two still figures.  

“Night, Curly,” the dwarf nearly chirped. He watched the Commander go, Yvaïne looming nearby in sullen silence.

She waited until he was completely out of sight before rounding on her companion. “You think you’re helping, Varric, but you’re not.”  

He scratched the stubble on his face, evidently trying to massage away the grin that was still planted on his features. “I dunno. I think that went pretty well.” When all he got was a glower in return, sparks nearly jumping from Yvaïne’s balled up fists, he continued. “Listen, he’s got a heart. He’s not like the Templars out there now - shouldn’t be judged by the same standards. Sure, he’s done some shit but he’s a good man. Give the guy a chance, will you?”

She couldn’t tell whether she wanted to laugh in his face or howl at the top of her lungs. She held her breath for a second to ensure she did neither, then threaded a finger under the ribbon at her throat, taking comfort in the way it bit into the flesh at the back of her neck.

“Is that so?” Yvaïne’s tone was as dry as her mouth. It wasn’t Varric’s fault that he spoke in ignorance and she tried to remember this as she chose her next words. “You’re trying to help,” she repeated, “but you didn’t write that story and it didn’t have a happy ending.”

Varric cocked his head, broad brow furrowed in what was probably curiosity, but she gave him a curt wave and plowed through the snow toward the mage encampment. Let the dwarf chew on a cryptic answer for once.

“See you later, Nug!” he bellowed at her back.

“Son of a bitch...” she growled to herself. Maybe the dwarf was a pain in the ass to keep around after all.


End file.
